to wield, to forgive, to extract
by Innocence Has a Gun
Summary: To wield Durandal with a strong hand again- it feels right, comfortable, like an old and worn glove slipping onto his hand and bringing with it the comforts in a strange land.


It feels _right_ to shove Spada against the wall, to curl his fingers into the flares of his jacket and press their lips together, eyes squeezed shut and anger draining fast out of him. To wield Durandal with a strong hand again- it feels right, comfortable, like an old and worn glove slipping onto his hand and bringing with it the comforts in a strange land.

Only the strange land was an alley in Naos and it wasn't that strange at all - the group had strolled in it many a time, passing through to Hartman's house on some errand or visit, admiring the care in which the trees and flowers were taken care of - and it _shouldn't_ feel right, it just _shouldn't_, because this was his _best friend_-

his best friend against the wall, tongue teasing against his lips and him responding fluidly to it, taking the chance to slip his own in and dance around, letting his hands fall from the jacket to rise into the green hair, brushing the hat off and tightening their grip helplessly. He can feel Spada shift uncomfortably against the wall and he lets him get a better position; he regrets it the second Spada gets a better hold on him, by the hips, and guides him in a circle until he's the one being pushed against the wall, the brick scratching against the back of his head and making him flinch. Spada's hands keep him in check, one lifting up to cup his cheek with calloused hands, then smoothing his thumb down his jaw and laying his palm flat against the wall, trapping him. Luca squirms, and Spada bites his lip to stop him.

It works. Luca cries out - in pain, definite pain, tasting iron and a stinging warmth and Spada sucks on his lip, and it hurts _more_ and he can't do it again, not with an invasion of his mouth and a war between tongues. He's losing the battle, he knows; he's inexperienced, just trying not to appear foolish, while Spada plays him like a harp, all gentle teases on strings and playing for sounds and sensations. His fingers tighten in the green hair and he moves one of his hands back down, then back up, awkward attempting to place it. The hand on his hip grabs his awkward hand and holds it down, against the wall by his waist, and Spada tilts his head a little forcefully, just enough to deepen it. White knuckles scrape against rough brick, tearing skin, little nicks and dead skin, and Luca entwines their fingers with some trouble, flinching his fingers and scrapes away from rough hands used to the grip of a sword, not a hand, when they come too close to the hyper-sensitive skin.

It feels like the world's spinning, and they break apart. Fingers and hands still in place, chests heaving a little harder than usual with the want of breath, and Luca watches the cobblestone ground instead of anything else, the way Spada's feet shuffle just a little closer and slip beisde the tip of his as he shuffles closer. Luca won't meet his eyes, not even when Spada lifts his chin up and tries to nudge his eyes towards him. He thinks if he tried, he'd die of shock or mortification or both; he's almost right, especially when he finally lifts his eyes, nervous, and his knees shake as if to buckle right under him. Spada starts to open his mouth, then snaps it shut and actually seems to think. Luca almost wants to tell him not to think too hard or he'd hurt himself, but it's a bit of a delicate situation, and one of his own cause. Maybe he should've thought a little longer instead of letting his emotions take over.

As soon as Spada shifts away, to the opposite wall, Luca pulls at the hem of his jacket, squeezes his eyes shut, and murmurs an apology. Spada laughs (it's a little strained, a little nervous, and he wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't heard it a thousand times before) and ruffles his hair softly, if firmly. It's the break of a moment, something to signal that yeah, okay, nothing had changed. Relief washes over him like a wave, threatening to sweep him off his feet and his knees shake again, and he laughs a little, too, wipes the blush from his face but not from his ears, and pretends he isn't nervous when they make their way back to the rest of the group.


End file.
